They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. “I saw—they knocked off your fetters yesterday. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. "Read that," rejoined Austin, pointing to the placard.
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